


The Redeeming

by Vera_dAuriac



Series: The Debts We Make [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canon Divergence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Light Bondage, M/M, Religion, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-20 04:24:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4773416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vera_dAuriac/pseuds/Vera_dAuriac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos comes to collect Aramis from the monastery. The past, good and bad, lingers in their every thought.</p><p>"Four years he had given to God to atone for his sins, and mere seconds after setting eyes on Athos, his body cried out in desperate need to sin again."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for this Part came from thinking about where Season 3 will start. I'm sure once S3 airs, all of this will be so much rubbish, but, meh, we'll just call it Canon Divergence for real then.
> 
> Also, while this is Part 4 in the series, I have done my best to allow this story to stand on its own. I believe readers familiar with the previous stories will be rewarded for knowing them, but it is not necessary to enjoy this story.
> 
> Chapter 2 will actually bring the story to a nice resting place, and I'm still deciding if the other 4 stories I have planned for Aramis and Athos will take place within this continuity or in something new. Feedback on that front, especially once Chapter 2 is posted, will be appreciated.

By Vera d’Auriac

Chapter 1

Little Simon had literally gone cross-eyed with concentration. Swipe after swipe of the whetstone engrossed him, and Aramis was certain the boy had no idea he let out a puff of air that fluttered his long bangs at the end of each pass. Aramis smiled, happy to see Simon getting the hang of sharpening a blade. The poor boy had come to him in tears, begging him to sharpen the blades the kitchener had given him. Apparently the last two times Simon had been given this task, he had failed, only to feel the kitchener’s wrath on his backside. 

“You were a Musketeer, Brother Aramis,” Simon had sobbed. “You can surely sharpen blades.” 

But Aramis had refused to do Simon’s work for him. “Bring the knives and two whetstones to the stables, and I will teach you.” 

So here, away from the disapproving glare of the kitchener, a bony old monk Aramis suspected of garnering his position on the assumption he was least likely to take extra food, Aramis taught Simon how to sharpen. It was a reminder of old routines, which Aramis found extremely relaxing when he took up a meat cleaver and worked its edge. Cleaning, honing, caring for weapons. He sighed. Some parts of his former life refused to fade even after four years in Douai. 

“There!” Simon exclaimed, clearly very proud of himself. “Brother Ferdinand will surely be pleased with this.” 

Aramis leaned back, Simon a bit careless with his short, but now well-honed blade used for skinning small game. “Yes, well done, Simon. But may I suggest that is not the safest way to show off your work.” 

“Novitiates should never show off, full stop.” 

Aramis and Simon both froze and looked up to see Abbe Toussaint enter the stable. An intelligent man of middle years, the Abbe had an unnerving habit of turning up unexpectedly and knowing things you would have thought it impossible for him to know. Aramis felt he would do quite well in Paris. Or Madrid, for that matter. Here in Douai, they did answer to King Philip IV, after all. 

“Pride is a sin, Brother Simon. Perhaps if that is a lesson you have trouble learning, you should not be spending time with Brother Aramis.” Toussaint raised an eyebrow at Aramis, who had to suppress a chuckle for the good of Simon’s soul and the genuinely useful lesson being taught him.

“I wanted to sharpen the knives well for Brother Ferdinand. Brother Aramis was teaching me.” 

“Why did you go Brother Aramis with this, and not Brother Ferdinand?” Abbe Toussaint asked. “Brother Aramis should be helping the brothers make medicine in the hospital.” 

Aramis, after years in the seminary and then the military, had learned long ago when a superior did not truly wish to hear your explanations. Poor Simon had yet to learn that lesson. “He was a Musketeer, Abbe. Surely he can sharpen knives better than Brother Ferdinand.” 

He couldn’t remember now how everyone, including the newest novitiates, had discovered the truth of his past. But everyone at the Douai monastery knew Aramis had been a Musketeer. A fact Abbe Toussaint never seemed to like, even though Aramis suspected him of being the source of the information.

“How interesting you should mention that fact,” Toussaint said, shuffling aside to allow Brother Jan, a novitiate not much older the Simon, to lead in a horse. “It is Brother Aramis’s past that has brought me here looking for him.” 

“Sir?” Aramis questioned. 

“Sir!” the Abbe guffawed. “Some habits linger through even the fiercest penitence in some.” 

“Run along, Simon,” Aramis told the boy, patting him on the back. Simon gathered up his blades and departed more hastily than safety dictated, considering his load, while Aramis took his time gaining his feet. Alone now with the Abbe, save for Jan unsaddling the horse, Aramis continued, “My apologies, Abbe. I am trying.” 

The horse whinnied from its stall a few feet behind Aramis. 

“Is there something wrong with that animal?” Toussaint questioned. “Do I need to summon one of the other brothers to help you?” 

Brother Jan stammered out a “no,” and an apology. Aramis walked over to the stall and patted both the horse and Brother Jan, hoping to calm everyone. “Some horses get a little testy after a long ride,” Aramis said. “Especially if they have sour riders.” 

“The merchant looked very sour, brother,” Jan said. 

Aramis laughed and continued to stroke the horse’s nose. The animal looked well fed and cared for, but a bit old and scarred for a prosperous merchant. Well, perhaps the merchant wasn’t prosperous. “How funny,” Aramis thought to himself as he ran his fingers down the horse’s nose once more. “There’s a scar here exactly like….” He dropped his hand and spun around to Toussaint. “You said you wished to speak to me about my past?” 

Toussaint chuckled. “I think that horse has already delivered my message and I am done here. The merchant is at the well cleaning up and refreshing himself after a long ride. You should go greet him. I expect you will both wish to see me eventually. You will be able to find me in my office.” He came over and rested a hand on Aramis’s shoulder. “God calls some more than once.”

A smiled creased Toussaint’s face, a small expression on the Abbe’s lips Aramis had seen convey great joy, sadness, and regret. Which it meant now Aramis attempted to puzzle out in a haze as Toussaint exited the stable. The horse nuzzling the very shoulder where the Abbe’s hand had so lately rested woke Aramis from his stupor. “Take special care of this horse,” he told Jan. “The owner will do more than look sour should anything happen.” Patting Jan and horse once more, he strode out of the stable and across the yard to the well behind the kitchen. 

He stopped at the corner of the kitchen, hesitant to see him standing at the well. Because, of course, it could only be one person—a sour-faced man from his past riding _that_ horse. Why was he here? There could only be one explanation. Well, there could be an endless number of explanations, but they all led to the same result: he wanted Aramis to leave the monastery. Part of Aramis ached to turn the corner, to see him again, but an equal part wished to run and hide until he left. 

He had left his former life—left Paris and the Musketeers and everything else—for a reason. One does not simply walk away from a vow to God. But could Aramis turn away from him again? The last time he had helped Aramis leave, but if he was here, it could not be to help Aramis continue living this life. Aramis felt himself edging toward the corner, unable to stay away from the man he knew waited. 

And there he was, much as he had always been. He rested on the edge of the well, a cup in his hand, drinking water. He had let his hair grow, and water dripped from the ends as though the first cup had been dumped over his head. His beard was different, more style and thought put into it, but the man remained the same. Aramis could see it clearly in his stillness, his disconsolate yet defiant posture. 

“Athos.” 

The man put the cup down and rose. But then Athos froze and stared at Aramis. “Have I changed so much?” Aramis thought, quickly coming to the conclusion that he must appear a different man altogether to Athos here in his cassock, hair tied back at the nape of his neck, thinner than before. Then Athos started toward him, and Aramis felt his breath catch. Somehow, he had forced himself to forget how Athos moved, to banish from his mind the fluidity of Athos’s every gesture and step. Aramis became contrastingly rigid. Four years he had given to God to atone for his sins, and mere seconds after setting eyes on Athos, his body cried out in desperate need to sin again. 

***

Aramis seemed to stop breathing as Athos neared him. When he had risen from the well, he had intended to embrace Aramis, to hold his friend and brother as he had done in times gone by. However, when his brother practically recoiled from his approach, Athos reminded himself that as much as the man before him looked precisely like his old comrade Aramis, this was not his brother-in-arms. No, this was Brother Aramis, a Benedictine monk in the service of God, not a sharpshooter in the service of the King of France. He pulled up a few feet shy of Aramis and nodded. “Aramis.” 

“Is this absolutely necessary?” 

Athos thought of asking for clarification, but before the words formed in his mouth, he understood Aramis’s meaning. “This is not what I want for you, leaving here, that is. I explained you would not wish to, but my opinion was not the deciding factor.” 

Aramis nodded. “I could refuse to leave.” 

Athos opened his jacket to reveal the heavy money purse strapped to his belt, his belt that sat atop the blue scarf Aramis had given him four years ago before he left. “I have been provided with sufficient persuasion to convince your Abbe to let you go.” 

Aramis’s air of defeat made Athos want to leave immediately, pretend he had not be able to cross into Spanish territory and reach Douai. He wanted Aramis to never leave here, but rather to continue serving God as he had vowed. But Aramis nodded, and said, “I like Abbe Toussaint, but he is a man with expensive needs. I expect him to be a bishop someday. His greatest need is power, however. Since I frankly agree with most of his aims, I have never taken issue with this trait. Well, until now, of course. The point is, he will want some of that, but if you have something more valuable but less tangible, he will take that instead.” 

“Thank you for telling me.” And that was all; Athos could think of nothing else to say, yet he must have conversation to quiet his thoughts.

But Athos could not speak, and when Aramis wetted his lips with the tip of his tongue, Athos was transported back seven years to the night Aramis had performed fellatio on him. It was an act never repeated or spoken of, and at moments like this, Athos wondered if he had merely dreamed it. Still, here in the courtyard of the monastery where Aramis had come to make his peace with God, Athos thought of how he had helped lead Aramis into sin, how he had enjoyed it, and more than anything, how he wanted it again.

“You must be tired,” Aramis said, walking past Athos. “Let us sit. The Abbe, I suspect, thinks you will win me over easily. I do not wish to give him too much satisfaction.” 

Athos followed and resumed his spot at the well, only now with Aramis so close he could touch him. There had been a fleeting moment five years ago when Athos had spent the night tending Aramis’s wounds after he had been tortured by a Spanish agent, and during that night Athos had thought at one point he might continue touching Aramis regularly. But all nights end, and in the morning light he had seen his mistake—Aramis did not want him the way Athos wished he did. Four years ago when Aramis left him—and the woman he loved, along with their child—Athos had given up any hope of ever touching Aramis again. That day and the next had, in fact, been the most painful of his life. He had long felt torn between his desire for Aramis and his own wife. Not that he could ever have Aramis, and then it came to pass Athos would never have his wife again, either. 

“So,” Athos cleared his throat, “you do not need convinced? Have you not been happy here?” 

Aramis peered wistfully back toward the courtyard. “Happy? I’m not sure. I…found peace—fleeting and irregular—but moments of quiet in my soul. It is more than I have ever known in my life. I do not want to leave here. I know my soul will find no quiet in the world.” 

“I do not want to take you from here. Believe me, I wish I could leave you here to find whatever peace God can grant you. But the king got a thought in his mind, and if not me, someone else would have come for you.” 

“The king?” Aramis guffawed. “He even remembers my name?” 

Athos did not say it would be difficult to forget the name of the man accused of treason for sleeping with the queen and fathering the dauphin. Accusations which happened to be true, even if the king had been convinced otherwise. Athos also did not mention it had actually been the queen who proposed Aramis’s name for the assignment. Athos prayed to God no one ever did. The only people who knew besides himself were Treville and the king and queen. Athos knew Treville would never tell Aramis who suggested him, but Athos did not trust the discretion of either royal in this matter. 

“The teenage Archbishop of Reims, Henri, needs a secretary. His father, Duke of Guise, supported King Louis’s mother, and the fear is the family harbor Spanish and Hapsburg loyalties. A monk from Spanish-held Douai would make the perfect addition to the archbishop’s household.” 

“So I am to be a spy?” 

“Yes.” 

Aramis bowed his head, propping it up with his thumb on one side of the bridge of his nose and a finger on the other. Athos could not tell if he was praying or fighting back tears. “I thought God wanted me to be here. I thought….” But Aramis did not say what. 

***

“The sum is sufficient, thank you,” Toussaint told Athos. Aramis’s stomach clenched at how easily he had been sold by the man who had promised to help guide his eternal soul. “However, I would beg a favor.” 

Precisely as Aramis had predicted. At least he would not go as cheaply as he’d feared. 

“Yes?” Athos asked, the slight tilt of his head another thing Aramis added to his list of what he had forced himself to forget about Athos so he could function these last four years. 

“Aramis will be secretary to the Archbishop of Reims. The archbishop and his family have a great deal of influence in Europe.” 

“I will only speak well of you, Abbe,” Aramis smiled, actually happy to do so. 

“I have no doubt you will, Aramis. But if you could specifically remind them of the vacancy in Amiens, that would be better.” 

Aramis’s smile broadened. Toussaint would be an admirable candidate for the position, and it would mean they would likely see each other again. Aramis could see no drawbacks. However, something else Toussaint had said, or more accurately not said, troubled him. “You have called me ‘Aramis’ twice now, Abbe. Just ‘Aramis.’ Am I to understand…?” 

“I release you from your vows,” nodded Toussaint. “I have, quite frankly, always found your attempt at monasticism heroic, but you were never truly meant for the life of a monk within the confines of monastery walls. You are even less suited to the life of a monk in the outside world. Your life thus would be a misery, and I do not wish that upon you.” 

“But I made a vow to God.” 

Abbe Toussaint waved away the protest. “Your misery would bring no glory to God. I feel assured He is pleased with the sacrifice you have made these last four years. You have atoned for the sins which brought you to this place.” Toussaint stepped forward and made the sign of the cross on Aramis’s forehead. “Kyrie eleison. Christe eleison. Kyrie eleison. Go forth Aramis, precious child of God, with a clean heart and do the Lord’s work in the world.” 

***

“Athos, I assume you were intending to stop somewhere for the night?” Aramis asked. “I only mention it because I am not the traveler I once was. In fact, I’m forced to admit I am rather saddle sore.”

Of course Athos had been intending to stop for the night at a spot he had selected on the ride north—a large inn that would almost certainly have multiple available rooms. However, they were still two hours away, perhaps more if they had to slow their pace. “We are somewhat far from the nearest acceptable inn. How much farther do you think you can ride today?”

“By any chance is the closest unacceptable inn within a half hour’s ride?”

“I am glad I brought an extra bedroll.”

“Ah, sleeping on the ground!” Aramis smiled from the saddle of the pleasant mare Abbe Toussaint had given them after extracting a few more promises. “The finest motivator for remaining in the saddle.”

“So you prefer to ride on?”

Aramis frowned. “No. We had better stop soon. I truly am saddle sore, and I should tend to myself before they grow troublesome.”

Athos nodded and began scanning the woods on either side of the road. If he remembered correctly, a stream ran through the trees somewhere on the left not far from the road. Aramis would doubtless appreciate plentiful fresh water for his sores. Soon a light path appeared, and Athos turned Roger to follow it. As he suspected, in less than one hundred feet, they reached the stream, and on the way there, he had spotted a good clearing in which to make camp. “Will this do?”

“Admirably,” Aramis answered as he struggled out of the saddle. He led his horse to the water’s edge, where she began to drink. “If you have no objections, I want nothing more than to wade in and wash the ride away.”

“I have none at all,” said Athos, already unloading Roger as the horse gratefully refreshed himself. “I will start making camp. The evening will likely be warm. Should I bother with a fire, do you think?”

Aramis stripped off his jacket and pauldron, the latter a gift Athos had brought with him from Treville. They had thought something with religious imagery would suit Aramis’s new position, and a cross on a sunburst field came down over the chest. Aramis seemed to like it, but Athos could not ignore a sense of unsuitability seeing Aramis decorated with something other than the Fleur de Lis. Still, Aramis would not have left the monastery to rejoin the Musketeers, something he, Porthos, and d’Artagnan had learned quite painfully four years earlier.

“Let me see if I can still catch a fish,” Aramis said, eyes lighting up as he dropped his shirt to the ground. He had long been a maze of scars, but the torture from which Athos had saved him in Andorra left more than any other incident. Seeing the wide scar that led in a downward diagonal across his right shoulder blade ending at his spine made Athos’s stomach tighten. He would never forget that night, tending Aramis’s wounds, feeling so near to him, near enough he had briefly believed Aramis might share his affections. But morning had come and whatever had passed between them in the night remained there.

When Aramis dropped his belt to the ground and started unlacing his pants, Athos abruptly turned away. This precise situation was why he had been hoping to reach an inn where they could have separate rooms. He could not trust himself around Aramis in circumstances this intimate. What would he do during the night? Whether or not they needed a fire for cooking, Athos determined to build one, if only because sleeping on opposite side of a fire would not seem wholly unnatural.

Athos busied himself as long as he could making camp, but dumping bedrolls and preparing fuel for a fire was not a terribly time consuming task. He removed his belt and jacket, took off his boots and opened his collar. His scarf he tucked into a pocket, and he returned to the stream to wash, check the horses, and gaze on Aramis as little as possible.

The horses were fine and had turned their attention to the grass of the bank. He led first Roger and then Aramis’s mare to a tree where he could tie them. Now he had nothing left to do but speak to Aramis.

“Athos, did you see?” Aramis exclaimed, sounding like an eager boy showing off to a proud parent. “I managed to catch one!”

Athos looked at the bank close to Aramis and saw a trout flapping around. He raised his head to grin at Aramis, but he wished he had kept his head bowed. Aramis had waded out into the stream to deeper water, but it was not that deep, coming not quite to the top of Aramis’s thighs. He was completely naked and shimmering with water. Athos did not think it was merely the separation of years, the longing he had felt, that made him believe Aramis had never been so beautiful. 

“Very good,” Athos said, “I will go prepare it.” He grabbed the wriggling animal in both hands, intending to take it back to the camp immediately. 

“It can wait a few minutes. You should at least get yourself a drink.” 

“I had water from my canteen,” Athos lied. “I should refill it. I will get it when I take the fish.” 

“Suit yourself. But the water is quite refreshing.” 

“How are your sores?” 

“Not as bad as I feared,” Aramis said, peering down at his thighs. Athos nearly dropped the trout. “And I have some of d’Artagnan’s balm. It was very popular at the monastery.” 

“Naturally,” Athos answered, and he ran off. 

The rest of the night progressed better. Aramis applied his balm while standing on the bank of the river, so the next time Athos saw him, he was clothed. But the vision of Aramis’s naked, wet body never strayed far from Athos’s mind, the fact that water continued to drip from Aramis’s hair, longer and even more lovely than it had been four years previous, not helping. But they managed to cook the fish and eat the bread and cheese Athos had brought along and speak almost naturally. 

After dinner, Athos shared his brandy with Aramis, taking turns drinking from the flask Athos always left on Roger. In the fading light, sitting next to each other by the dwindling fire, Aramis began asking questions about his mission. This topic Athos felt able to converse on easily enough, and Aramis appeared ready and capable to perform his assignment. But then the conversation drifted toward old friends and old times, adventures with Porthos, questions about d’Artagnan and Constance’s children Aramis had never seen. 

“I have missed a great deal,” Aramis said, a melancholy half smile on his lips. 

Not long after, Aramis declared himself exhausted, and they decided to go to sleep. Somehow their bedrolls did not end up on opposing sides of the fire, their heads placed only a few inches apart, their feet pointing away from each other. Their makeshift pillows, in fact, placed them so closely together, Athos could hear Aramis’s every breath. 

He had not experienced such opposing feelings since his wife had left. Having Aramis back, being this close to him, was both his fondest wish come true and greatest fear. He remembered what Porthos had said when Aramis refused to return with them at the start of the war. “We should just tie him up and drag him back with us.” It was a sentiment Athos well understood, although he had been chiefly responsible for making Porthos, and even d’Artagnan, accept Aramis’s leaving. The sentiment, however, had unintended consequences in Athos’s mind, due to Porthos’s choice of phrasing. 

“Tie him up,” echoed in Athos’s head that day when Porthos had said it, and it reverberated still. He often thought of Aramis bound, usually his wrists tied in front of him like a prisoner being dragged from one place to another. Also, this configuration allowed Aramis to grope awkwardly for him, to reach out and touch him. As much as Athos fantasized about binding Aramis, an Aramis completely unable to touch him seemed anathema to who Aramis was. 

As time went on, Athos pictured Aramis bound several different ways—sometimes tied to a bed, spread-eagle, on occasion face up, other times prone. Or he envisioned Aramis tied to a chair or the railings of a horse stall, even a tree once. But Athos continued to return to Aramis only being tied at the wrists, still able to move, to come after him. This satisfied Athos’s depraved fantasies for a couple years, until one night, he imagined Aramis blindfolded, stumbling around, trying to find him, feel for him with his limited reach. It became an image he fell asleep with more nights than not if he were remotely sober, which he sadly was more than he liked since Treville insisted he be captain of the garrison. 

“Athos,” Aramis whispered. 

Athos literally shook his head, hoping to dislodge the mental sight of Aramis dripping and naked, bound at the wrists and blindfolded. And after he had seen Aramis’s scars earlier, been reminded of what had happened to Aramis when he was _bound_ by the Spanish agent, it made Athos feel sick in his soul. “Yes?” 

“Tomorrow we will reach the Chateau de Compiegne? And the entire court will be there?” 

“Yes,” Athos answered, sure he understood why Aramis was asking, which only made him sad and sicker. 

“Everyone? Even…even the dauphin? He is awfully young to travel.” 

“He travels everywhere her majesty travels,” Athos answered, hating himself for having phrased it thus. “He is quite used to it, and travels well. So, yes, I would expect the dauphin to be at Compiegne. But we will not be there long. Only long enough to assure the king you have accepted your duty and for me to check in with Treville.” 

“What is he like, Athos? The dauphin.” Aramis asked the question with such pain and sincere need to know, Athos felt unable not to answer, even though that was his wish. 

“Precocious and lively.” 

“What else? You must be able to tell me more. You see him regularly. You must have formed an opinion. Is he a good boy?” 

Athos sighed, wondering how little he could get away with saying. Then again, Aramis was about to reenter court life, and he would know soon enough the commonly held opinions about the heir to the throne. Perhaps it would be best to tell Aramis now, so he would be prepared when they reached the court now in residence at the Chateau de Compiegne. 

“He is devoted to his mother, and she to him. Not child in France is as well educated and protected. He is a handsome, energetic boy. Both of his parents are very fond of him and dote upon his every desire.” 

“Not both of his parents,” Aramis whispered. 

“Yes, both of his parents,” Athos insisted. 

“Athos, here in the woods, just the two of us alone in the dark, surely we can admit it.” 

“The dauphin is the king’s son, even here in a darkened wood, just us two.” 

“Athos—“

“Aramis, he is the king’s son. Never allow yourself to believe differently.” It hurt Athos as much to say those words as it hurt Aramis to hear them. Athos could only imagine what it would be not to have the ability to acknowledge your own child, but Aramis had to learn to live silently with his pain or risk his child’s very life. “Go to sleep now, Aramis. It has been a long day.” 

“It has been a long number of years. You began my redemption when you took me from the monastery. Let us hope I can use this opportunity to buy my soul back, bit by bit.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After leaving the monastery, Athos and Aramis meet up with the court. This leads to many painful reunions for Aramis, but Athos does what he can to make him feel better.

“It’s so good of you to come back and serve the crown,” King Louis said, flashing his toothy smile. Of course, Aramis was there to serve the crown of France, knowing one day it would sit upon his son’s head. No matter what Athos said, the dauphin was his son, and Aramis could not forget that. 

“It was my pleasure, your majesty,” Aramis said, with a nod of his head. The king passed him a glass of white wine from the long table under one of the several pavilions that dotted the lawn at the Chateau de Compiegne. Athos and Minister Treville had joined them in this particular pavilion, leaving the rest of the members of the court scattered across the lawn or under one of the other pavilions set up for the occasion. Of course, that only included the people who had joined them outside. The queen and dauphin had yet to make their appearance. Aramis’s stomach roiled as the wine hit it. 

“If I may suggest it,” the king said, “I think Captain Athos will prove the perfect contact for you.” 

Aramis and Athos exchanged brief glances, and Aramis assumed something very similar was making its way through his head. It would be natural for two old friends to see each other, but it would also be suspect if the archbishop’s secretary was seen often with a captain in the King’s Musketeers. And what would happen when the archbishop left Paris for Reims? Aramis cared not at all for that thought—if he could not be in Douai, he needed to be in Paris with Athos. Anyhow, he would discuss it with Athos when they returned to the inn in the village where they’d taken rooms for the night. 

“As your majesty wishes,” answered Athos. 

“I’ve known the archbishop most of his life,” the king continued. “If I may offer a suggestion.” 

“Of course, your majesty,” Aramis nodded. 

“He’s looking for a father figure. Not much of a surprise if you’ve ever met the Duke of Guise. Disgusting man. Anyhow, the archbishop is still a boy, really—only 21 years old. You might want to play father to him.” 

Aramis could barely force himself to nod. Speech was entirely out of the question. That the king should be telling him to play father to a boy who was not his son! When Aramis glanced helplessly at Athos, he saw the irony had not been lost on him. 

“Let me give you some parenting tips, then,” the king went on, oblivious to the mood that had overtaken his guests. “The key to being a good father is to be stern yet loving. In point of fact,” he giggled, “my son gets nearly everything he wants. I can’t deny him. But I at least try to make it seem as though it was my idea and I’m being magnanimous.” 

Aramis took a long drink from his glass, but the wine tasted sour. He took another sip, not having any other idea of what he could do, even though it bounced in his stomach. For a moment, he thought he might vomit on the king’s embroidered shoes. 

“Oh, the dauphin is the most spoiled boy in France. His mother and I just can’t say no to him.” The way the king smiled, so genuine and overflowing with affection, proved almost too much for Aramis. Surely he would be expected to respond soon, but what could he say? “But truly, you should not let your child know just how thoroughly he controls you. Perhaps it will be easier for you with the archbishop, since you won’t have any real affection for him.” 

“I’m sure you’re right, your majesty.” 

“Yes, I do my best not to let him know just how much I love him. It’s not good for a child to be too coddled, unless it’s by his mother. My mother was never kind to me, so I do have a soft spot for allowing her majesty to be effusive.” 

“Are you well?” Athos asked Aramis. 

Aramis felt his face flush and hoped only someone who knew him as well as Athos could see his distress. But he simply could not listen to the king discuss this a moment longer. “I must admit to feeling slightly indisposed. Four years of monastic life, I think, have left me ill-suited to travel.” 

“Then by all means, return to the village,” the king said with a smile, as though he had not a care in the world. 

“Thank you, your majesty.” Aramis bowed. He looked helplessly at Athos. 

“I will walk back with you,” Athos said. “Make certain you reach the inn safely.” 

“Oh, I’m sure you are not as unwell as that,” the king directly addressed Aramis. “I need to speak with you, captain. You can follow on in a little bit.” 

Aramis bowed again. “Absolutely right,” he said. “I will be fine on my own. Your majesty. Minister. I will see you later, captain.” 

Aramis hastened away before Athos could object. Poor Athos need not risk anything again because of Aramis’s indiscretion with the queen. The monastery lay behind him; before Aramis lay many more encounters like this one. He must learn to deal with them in ways that did not jeopardize himself or those he cared about. 

He made his way down the wide gravel path that led to a narrower one that would take him back to the village. The way he expected to find clear and open, but coming down this same path, and certain to reach the crossroads before Aramis, were the queen and her entourage. 

Well, Aramis could probably reach the crossroads before the queen if he ran, but that would be unacceptable. The same could be said for leaving the path and cutting across the lawn. One simply did not so blatantly avoid a queen, though. He must walk on, must greet her in front of at least half a dozen ladies-in-waiting and several guards. Worse yet, darting in and out of the group, was a small boy who must be the dauphin. If he had feared vomiting earlier, he need worry no longer—it felt as though everything within him froze. 

Anne was still beautiful, not that he had ever believed he could find her differently. Regal, yet approachable, only he knew the tenderness and pain that lurked beneath her placid exterior. Only he had ever tasted her passion; tasted her everything, he was willing to wager. About twenty feet before they met, he stopped and bowed, although with his eyes up so he could see her, see her reaction to his presence. He thought he noted a slight stutter to her step when she stopped nearly within arm’s length of him. The dauphin had run off somewhere—he did not see where. 

“Your majesty.” He remained in his bow, though he longed to straighten up, step forward, and clasp her hand so he could kiss it. He had done so often enough in the past, and he had not heard that kissing a lady’s hand in greeting had fallen out of fashion in Paris during his absence. Yet something held him back. Perhaps it was his own good sense, although he’d long ago given up on relying on his good sense. 

“Brother Aramis,” she said, everyone still behind her. It was so quiet for the span of several seconds, he caught snatches of the sparrows singing under the trees lining the path. “I had heard you were returning to Paris, to serve in the Archbishop of Reims’s household, I believe. I…I was uncertain if we would see you here in Compiegne.” 

Slowly, Aramis straightened up, yet he stood at an angle, somehow unable to look at her straight on. “It is just Aramis, your majesty. My Abbe released me from my vows before I left the monastery.” 

“Oh. I, well, that is to say….” 

“It is for the best, your majesty. I treasure the time I spent in Douai, but the Abbe believed I would be more suited to returning to the outside world if it was not as a monk.” 

“I see,” she said. Except, she did not see him, could not, the way her eyes darted about, never resting upon him. “I hope, well, I hope you find the situation suitable.” 

“Most suitable, your majesty. My Abbe said that neither I nor God would be served by my continued vow.” He smiled, even though he did not wish to. “I am pleased to be returning to Paris. But enough of my time away. I am pleased to see you still looking so well.” 

And she did look well, even better once she colored slightly at his compliment. “You have always been so kind. But four years brings a great deal of change. I think you have not seen Constance and d’Artagnan’s children.” 

“I have not,” he answered, this time with a natural smile that crinkled his eyes without effort. “I hope to find they take after their mother.” 

Her face lit up in return, a real fondness having formed between her and Constance years ago. “They have her lovely hair, but his olive skin. The daughter seems to have her father’s enthusiasm, while the boy is so young we are still debating whose personality he will inherit.” 

“Oh, no. Not d’Artagnan’s enthusiasm. I once saw it almost get the best of Athos’s good nature. In a girl, it could be truly dangerous.” 

“You should see d’Artagnan, though.” She laughed, a delicate giggle she almost seemed embarrassed to let out. “He is a different man with his children. All seriousness, until one of them smiles at him, of course. Then he just melts. You should see him play horse for them. But I’m giving the wrong impression. Fatherhood has sobered him. He is….” She faded off, Aramis assumed because she looked at his face and saw what her words were doing to him, saw what this talk of fatherhood made him feel. “Well, he is a very good father.” 

Aramis cleared his throat. “I’ve no doubt.” He looked away, now the one unable to meet the other’s gaze. “If you will forgive me, I was on my way—“ 

“Who is this, mama?” 

Because his eyes had been averted, he could not say where the dauphin had come from. But he was here, clinging to his mother’s leg. Aramis’s son was beautiful. No child had ever possessed such perfect, round and rosy cheeks. His light brown hair, fine and shimmering in the sun precisely like his mother’s. Aramis wanted to weep. 

“Louis, mind your manners. It is impolite to interrupt people,” Anne told him. 

“Sorry, mama. Please forgive me, sir.” 

Aramis literally sagged, the wind knocked from his body. He forced himself to inhale deeply. “No trouble, your royal highness. I…I was just about to leave.” 

“But not before I know who you are!” He said it with such certainty, Aramis could only agree that leaving before effecting an introduction would be impossible. It was also impossible for him to speak. Thankfully, Anne came to his rescue. 

“This is Aramis. He is an old friend. At one time, he was a Musketeer, and then he was a monk. Now he is going to join the Archbishop of Reims’s household.” 

“A Musketeer! But you don’t look mean enough. Is that why they kicked you out?” 

Anne laughed nervously, while Aramis stood there, his mouth hanging open. Thankfully, Anne saved him once more. “You must forgive him. The two Musketeers he sees most often are Minister Treville and Captain Athos. Louis finds them a bit severe.” 

Aramis grinned. “Ah, now I understand. Your royal highness should know that the minister is actually not mean at all, and one of the best men in France. Although I will admit that when he was my commander, he did frighten me more than once.” 

“Did he kick you out?” 

Anne grabbed Louis’s narrow shoulders and told him to shush, but Aramis was charmed, frankly. “No one kicked me out,” Aramis said. “In fact, Athos asked me quite pointedly to stay.” 

“So, he isn’t mean either?” 

“Captain Athos,” Aramis began, but paused, attempting to find the right words for the most complex and fascinating man he knew. “He may look sad and sour, and well, he is sometimes, but if you pay close attention, he’s also the funniest person I’ve ever met, even though you never really know he’s telling a joke.” 

“He sounds weird.” 

Aramis laughed and crouched down so he was looking Louis in the eye. “He is a bit, yes. But he’s also the finest swordsman in France. Did you know that?” 

Louis clearly found this information infinitely more interesting than anything else he had heard. He tugged so hard on his mother’s skirt, Aramis feared it would rip. “Mama! Did you hear that? Captain Athos is the finest swordsman in France! And he’s at the palace all the time!” 

“Louis, we have discussed this. It will be at least two more years before you start any training,” his mother scolded. “You are too little. And Captain Athos is a very busy man. You can take lessons from the master armorer.” 

“But papa always says I should have the best! If Captain Athos is a better swordsman than the master armorer, why shouldn’t I take lessons with him?” 

“Because, as I just said, Captain Athos is busy.” 

Aramis pictured it in his mind. He remembered Athos training d’Artagnan, who had been grown and knew how to use a sword. But his youthful arrogance had nearly driven Athos mad. Trying to teach a small child, who you had to very delicately reprimand and guide, would be even worse. Aramis chuckled internally and couldn’t help himself from saying, “You should absolutely ask Captain Athos. I bet he would love to teach you.” 

“See, mama! Aramis thinks it’s a good idea!” Louis’s triumphant smile was positively contagious, and soon Aramis and Anne shared it. “And I want the finest marksman in the country to teach me to shoot. You were a Musketeer,” Louis addressed Aramis. “You must know who the best shot in France is.” 

Aramis rocked back on his heels, his smile vanishing. “I have been in a monastery in Douai for four years. I’m sorry, but I cannot say who the best shot is.” 

“There was a time when you were considered the finest marksman in France,” Anne whispered. 

“Then you will teach me to shoot,” Louis exclaimed, smile as broad as ever. 

Aramis slowly stood up on his shaky legs. “Truly, your royal highness, I would surely be a poor instructor. I have barely touched a weapon in four years. I’m as likely to need instruction after that amount of time as offer useful advice.” 

“No, it must be you!” Louis insisted. “I like you, and I’m sure you’re still good.” 

“My only concern is for your proper education,” Aramis mumbled. “When your mother and father decide it is time for you to learn firearms, I am certain they will find you the fittest master, and that will not be me.” 

“Aramis, you need not be so modest,” Anne said. “You would make the perfect instructor.” 

Holy Mother of God, why was she doing this to him? Could she not see how impossible this was for him? Did she not understand that forcing him into their son’s life would only make it worse for him? Had she not understood at all why he left four years ago? “I…well, we will have to see when the day comes. For now, I must be going. Your majesty. Your royal highness.” 

His bows were nowhere close to deep enough, and his retreat far too hasty. But he could not stay, could not listen to the entreaties they began to make. He walked so fast as to nearly be a run. He had to leave. His son could not be permitted to see him cry. 

***

Athos watched every second of Aramis’s meeting with the queen with creeping dread. When the dauphin, who had been darting around the legs of the queen’s entourage, appeared at her side and addressed Aramis, Athos had to force himself not to sprint out of the pavilion and rescue his friend from what must be torture. Some men might take joy in seeing a former illicit love, and most people might assume a famous lover such as Aramis would be one of them, but Athos knew better. Even if he had not known the queen and dauphin were Aramis’s primary motivation for seeking redemption in the monastic life, he would have known from his posture how hard this moment was. Aramis had gone rigid when the queen spoke to him. And then, even from a distance, Athos who knew Aramis’s movements so well, saw Aramis deflated by the dauphin’s presence. If the king’s innocently-spoken words had driven Aramis away, what was the current conversation doing to him? 

When Aramis abruptly stood and hurried away like a man escaping a fire, Athos could no longer stand to listen to the king’s nonsense. It would be different if the king had kept him behind because he had vital news of state to impart, but he did not. He had simply blathered about the latest from the Spanish front, all of which was information Treville had passed along to him earlier in twenty seconds. Then again, Athos was lying to himself; even if the king had been talking about a major new shift in the war and assassinations, Athos would have wanted to go after Aramis. He had learned the hard way that you always needed to go after the people you love, sooner rather than later. 

“Forgive me, your majesty,” Athos interrupted. “But I must follow after Aramis. He seemed quite unsteady when he walked away, and it’s over a mile to the inn, a lengthy distance for an ill man on such a hot day.” 

Treville, bless him, added his weight to the argument. “I can send word to the inn should your majesty have any other news of interest for the captain. In fact, I have dispatches for the captain to take to Paris I will be sending over in the morning. Nothing would be simpler than adding anything of importance from yourself.” 

“Very well,” the king sighed. “I just hope he will be well enough to travel in the morning. I really need someone in that household immediately.” 

“He’s a bit tired, but his constitution is strong,” Athos assured the king. “I have every hope he will be well in the morning.” 

Louis waved him off lazily. With a nod to Treville, Athos started down the gravel path after Aramis. Of course, Athos encountered the same impediment Aramis had. He stopped his deliberate strides and bowed to the queen. “Your majesty. Very good to see you.” 

“And you, captain. It was also pleasant to see our old friend.” 

“Yes. He has been missed.” 

“He’s going to teach me how to shoot!” the dauphin interjected with enthusiasm. 

Athos first thought was, “Dear God, anything but that.” He did not say as much, however. “That is very interesting.” 

“Nothing was decided.” Her majesty smiled sweetly. “He claims to be a bit rusty.” 

“A Benedictine monastery does have limited use for a marksman,” Athos said. 

“He told me you are the best swordsman in France and would want to teach me.” 

“Did he?” 

The queen patted the dauphin’s head. “Run ahead to papa, now.” Without another word or thought, the dauphin unceremoniously sprinted away to the buffet pavilion Athos had recently left. “I think Aramis may have been teasing. But you are a fine swordsman. I would be grateful for anything you did for my son.” 

Athos nodded. “I believe I have heard the king mention his royal highness is still a few years away from beginning any sort of martial training.” 

“He is, but he is so enthusiastic. It’s, well, he seems to have an innate inclination for the military arts.” 

Athos nodded, silently cursing the queen for making even so oblique a reference to the dauphin’s parentage, especially in the presence of others. “All boys that age have similar interests. If you will excuse me, I was following after our friend. He was not feeling well and was returning to the inn. I want to make sure he arrives there safely.” 

“The two of you aren’t staying at the inn in the village, are you?” the queen asked. “We can surely find you better accommodations here at the chateau.” 

“Thank you, your majesty, but we and our horses are already settled there. It is a respectable and comfortable establishment. But thank you for your concern.” 

She nodded, and Athos skirted around the rest of the mass of people with her as best he could manage. In only a few dozen desperate strides, he reached the path leading to the village and turned down it. His stride, he feared, would strike anyone watching as a touch frantic, but he doubted anyone was looking at him with the arrival of the queen and dauphin. 

The path was straight, and Athos was surprised he could not see Aramis in front of him. He had not stopped and spoken with the queen for that long. Had Aramis given in to panic and run once he was out of view from the people on the lawn? If so, there was no cause for Athos to hurry—Aramis would have irrevocably outpaced him. If, on the other hand, he had stopped along the way, Athos could race right by him without ever seeing him if he did not take the time to look. 

Somewhere in the vicinity of a quarter mile from the chateau stood a small but elaborately constructed gothic church. Athos slowed his pace, here under the thick shade of elm trees, debating whether or not to search inside for Aramis. Given the trials of the day, Athos would not be surprised if he sought solace within the walls of the church. But Athos suspected Aramis would prefer the guaranteed solitude of the inn to a church, so he continued on. However, near the end of the church, a door rested, recessed into the base and dug down into the earth two steps. Back in this alcove, Aramis leaned against the stone, his face averted from the path. 

Athos took his first step down the narrow dirt path hesitantly, but he could not stay away from Aramis, not when he was in so much pain. But what could he possibly say? If ever a man had found himself in an impossible position, it was Aramis today. What meager resources did Athos possess with which to console him? 

“Aramis,” Athos said when he reached his side. When Aramis failed to acknowledge him, Athos put a hand on Aramis’s shoulder. Aramis shuddered and gasped. Athos gripped his shoulder all the harder. “I should have never taken you from Douai. I am so sorry. I wish I had fought the king and insisted you were wrong for the mission. I will never forgive myself for doing this to you.” 

Aramis turned his face toward Athos. Tears streamed unchecked over his cheeks. It made Athos want to scream, rampage, and punish whoever had hurt this lovely man. Of course, Athos knew he had hurt Aramis most of all. 

“I saw my son,” Aramis whispered. “He’s beautiful. Did you see him, Athos?” 

Athos tightened his grip on Aramis’s shoulder. He wanted to remind Aramis that they must not refer to the dauphin as anyone’s child but the king’s, but he did not have the heart to worsen Aramis’s pain. Instead, Athos quickly glanced around and saw no one near, as assured as he could be that no one would overhear them, and he said, “Yes, Aramis. I saw him. He is the most beautiful child in France.” 

Aramis choked on his tears. “So like his mother. Lucky in every way, that. He asked me to teach him to shoot.” 

“I know. I spoke with the queen on my way to find you. Do not worry. I will figure something out for you.” Poor Aramis sobbed again, and Athos put his arm around Aramis’s shoulder. “Let me get you back to the inn. You’re overwrought.” 

“I am undone.” Aramis took the back of his hand to his wet eyes, then attempted to dry the rest of his face with a swipe of his palm. Athos patted him on the back, feeling so inadequate to the situation. “Yes, take me to the inn. Heaven forbid anyone but you see me like this.” 

***

Athos guided Aramis back to the inn with all the alacrity he could muster. It ended up not being a particularly difficult task—Aramis was in such a daze, he happily allowed Athos to steer him. And although his eyes remained red and puffy, his tears had stopped falling before they reached the inn, so their entrance made no especial impression on the proprietress. She simply nodded and told Athos that she had run out of rooms, what with the court at the chateau, so she had put them in the same room. “Extra bed’s already in there for you,” she said. “No charge.” Earlier in the day, Athos would have felt terror at such a sleeping arrangement, but now he did not care—he would not have left Aramis like this for anything. 

Upstairs in their cramped and cluttered room, Athos removed Aramis’s jacket and pauldron before taking off his own. “Sit, Aramis. Let me get you a glass of wine.” Athos pushed Aramis onto the edge of the larger bed before filling a glass on the table beside them. He smelled the wine. His nose wrinkled, but he took a sip anyway. Absolute swill. “A moment. I have a flask of brandy still in my bag.” 

“No, this will do fine.” Aramis held out his hand and Athos pressed the glass into it. He took a drink. 

“It truly is undrinkable. Allow me to get you something better.” 

Aramis shook his head. “I can barely taste it. Do not waste anything better on me. Please, just sit.” 

Athos did as instructed, taking a spot to Aramis’s right on the bed. Undrinkable or not, Athos poured himself a glass and joined Aramis in that, as well. “I am so sorry. For everything. For the pain you feel today, for being the person responsible for bringing you here. I cannot apologize enough.” 

“Please don’t, Athos.” Aramis put his hand atop Athos’s and squeezed, and then left it resting there. “You are not to blame for any of this. You are not at fault for my past, nor where I find myself at present.” He paused to take another sip. “You’re right about one thing, though. This wine is horrid.” 

Athos set down his own glass, then whisked away Aramis’s. “Let me get us something better.” 

But Aramis gripped his hand so tightly Athos could not get away. “I don’t need anything to drink.” He pressed Athos’s hand again. “This is doing me more good than anything.” Aramis looked down at his lap and chuckled. “Until you put your hand on my shoulder back at the church, I had not noticed how much I had missed physical contact. Monastic life in Douai is very much as the name implies.” 

“But do the brothers not show one another affection?” Athos asked the question innocently enough, but immediately saw all of the underlying meanings. Aramis, naturally, did so as well. 

“There was surprisingly little of that at Douai,” Aramis chuckled. “And I actively avoided that crowd. I was there to repent of my sins of the flesh, not commit more.” He laughed again, but Athos detected no mirth in it. “And the other brothers, well, they are a very cold lot. No, I’ve had almost no physical contact for four years. You cannot begin to imagine how good your simple, calloused hand feels to me.” 

“I can, in point of fact,” Athos answered. “I have never been a man to encourage demonstrativeness. With you gone, well, there is only Porthos and d’Artagnan to offer a stray pat on the back once in a great while. And I am their superior officer now. Even if they were inclined, it would be inappropriate, so it is incredibly infrequent.” 

Aramis brushed his thumb across the back of Athos’s hand. “Inappropriate or not, I’m sure if they knew you wanted it, they would share their brotherly affections with you now as they did in times past.” 

“But they cannot know,” Athos said. He turned his face to Aramis, who also raised his eyes now. “I would never tell them such a thing, reveal my wants.” 

“Superior or not, you are their brother. And you could have gotten physical contact elsewhere. Did Porthos never take you out to our favorite taverns and houses of custom? I am certain he did not stop visiting because I left, and I can’t imagine he wanted to go alone. Who else could he go with? Constance would throttle him if he took d’Artagnan.” 

“We have been at war. We’ve spent very little time in Paris, and even when we do, well, I have been as monastic as you.” Athos could no longer meet Aramis’s eyes. He dropped his own to where their hands rested on the bed between them. On an impulse he felt as capable of stopping as to not blink, he flipped his hand over and clutched Aramis’s, palm-to-palm. “The day after you left Paris, so did my wife. I have been entirely alone since then, as starved for touch as you.” 

“Athos.” 

They locked eyes again, and heartfelt words—the kind Athos never spoke—spilled from him. “I have wanted…so much, for so long. I cannot even describe it. But I have been so alone, so in need, so desperate. I must sound like a lunatic. You understand, though. The loneliness.” 

“Yes,” Aramis answered. He leaned forward and pressed his lips against Athos’s. 

All it took was that slightest bit of pressure, and Athos came unhinged. Seven years. It had been seven years since that night in the tavern discussing fellatio that Athos had wanted Aramis. Seven years since that very night when Aramis had walked Athos home and performed fellatio on him. So much had happened in between. Athos’s wife had returned, he had nursed Aramis through his intimate injuries in Andorra, and Aramis had had his own loves and followed his own path away from Athos, all the way to Douai. But now they were in Compiegne, both in pain and unloved, seeking in each other what had been missing from their lives. 

Athos dug his fingers into Aramis’s hair and pulled him tighter, kissing him so hard it would leave a bruise if they maintained the pressure for too long. His tongue pushed through Aramis’s lips, searching frantically around his mouth. Aramis’s tongue butted against it as his free hand pulled Athos closer by the shoulder. 

This kiss, this amazing fulfillment of Athos’s want, continued, ever changing, but never ending. Their free hands kept hold of their precious treasures (hair and shoulder, respectively), and their other hands still clasped atop the bed tightened incalculably. In fact, their joined hands began to shake, they were gripped so tightly. Athos, after rearranging his hold on Aramis’s hair, moved their held hands to Aramis’s leg. Without losing contact, Athos freed his fingers from Aramis’s hand so he could massage the inside of his thigh. Aramis groaned in Athos’s mouth, which caused Athos to do everything harder. 

Athos’s mind briefly flicked back to that night seven years ago. Aramis had kissed his neck, sucked hard in one place, and Athos, for a time, had wanted him to do nothing else. Ever. But then Aramis had licked his way down Athos’s jaw and neck, and suddenly he had changed his mind and wanted to feel Aramis’s tongue everywhere. He realized he felt the same now—part of him never wanted his mouth anywhere but on Aramis’s, his left hand should remain forever on Aramis’s thigh, his right tangled in those beautiful curls. But Aramis pulled Athos’s hand up the inside of his thigh, and when Athos felt Aramis’s erection through his pants, Athos wanted so much more. All of the fantasies and desires coalesced into a single imperative. Athos forced himself to relinquish Aramis’s hair, so he could use both hands to open Aramis’s pants. 

Their kiss became less forceful but more frantic as Athos undid the top of Aramis’s pants. He was so intent on this goal, Athos did not even bother to undo them completely, only enough that he could pull Aramis’s magnificent cock free. God! He had dreamed of this for so long, wanted nothing more, and he would not be delayed even by a matter of seconds. 

It pained Athos to break off their kiss, but he did so when he dropped to the floor, on his knees, between Aramis’s legs. He leaned forward, but before he could touch his lips to Aramis’s cock, already glistening with anticipation, Aramis put his fingers under Athos’s chin and forced his face up. “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. There are…other things.” 

“I have wanted this for so long. Please let me have this.” 

Aramis slipped his fingers from under Athos’s chin and palmed his cheek. Athos no longer met any resistance to what he wanted. 

Athos took all of Aramis at once, his lips brushing Aramis’s body. Aramis moaned, and every part of him, save what was in Athos’s mouth, went limp. Athos, on the other hand, became more aware, more tense and ready, desperate not to fail at what he had waited so long to have happen. Almost immediately he realized that impaling himself on Aramis so enthusiastically was probably not actually the most proficient way for him to please Aramis, which was his actual goal. So he pulled his head back and gripped the base of Aramis for better control, and methodically began sliding his mouth up and down. 

Aramis moaned again, and fell back on the bed. Athos tried hard to maintain his pace, but when Aramis twisted his fingers through Athos’s hair, all rhythm was lost. In this moment, Athos had great respect for Aramis’s ability to quite literally not miss a beat when he had threaded his fingers into Aramis’s hair. It felt so delightful—tender and sensual all at once—Athos could barely keep his mouth around Aramis’s cock. And he wanted to keep his mouth there. The taste of Aramis—a beautiful blend of sex and salt—was the most perfect thing ever to pass his lips. 

As if he knew—and this was Aramis, whom nature had made as instinctual a lover as any person alive, so he likely knew exactly—Aramis used the hand in Athos’s hair to guide him. Soon, the rhythm was found again, and both of them moaned. But it was not enough. Athos needed to do more; he needed Aramis to come in his mouth, and it was a want he could not deny himself. He must make it happen. Now. So he sucked as hard as he could every time his head came up Aramis’s shaft. Judging by the sacrilegious use of the Lord’s name escaping Aramis’s mouth, Athos had done the right thing. So he tried sucking harder and slower on the way up, after a quick dive down as far as he dared go, afraid gagging would ruin the moment if he went too low. Aramis’s insistent moans encouraged Athos, and he began lingering at the tip, to suck with all his powers. When Aramis’s hand in his hair started shaking, when Athos was clearly on his own once more, Athos knew Aramis must be close. He did his best to maintain the steady pace he knew Aramis enjoyed while sucking as hard as he possibly could, adding a pass of his tongue over the tip when he lingered there for an extra beat. 

Aramis pulled Athos’s hair, and Athos knew it was his way of saying he was close, a polite warning. But Athos would sooner crawl through briars than move his mouth away from Aramis’s release. One more pass, two, and on the third, Aramis came. Athos swallowed as fast as he could, not wanting to spill anything from Aramis, as well as wanting to maintain a pleasurable pressure until Aramis finished. And it took him a long time to complete his orgasm, not that Athos minded. For Aramis and this moment, all night would have felt too short to him. 

But Aramis did stop coming, and Athos was a man and understood the diminishing returns of any kind of stimulation. Slowly, Athos allowed Aramis’s wilting cock to slip from his mouth. Athos lay his cheek against Aramis’s thigh, and only now realized how firmly he had been clutching Aramis’s hip with the hand that had not been around his base. He let himself just relax. For the first time in he could not say how long. Aramis petted his hair, and for some time, Athos could not say how long, they simply touched and rested and were together. 

It was as beautiful a moment as any Athos had experienced, and while he did not wish to disturb it, neither could he allow it to pass. He kissed Aramis’s groin and leaned back on his heels. Aramis sat up and leaned forward, and put his hand on Athos’s cheek. Athos smiled and the words, “I love you,” were forming on his lips, when Aramis kissed them away. It was a gentle kiss, no tongue and little pressure, just their lips brushing against each other in an unmistakable pattern of desire. 

Aramis leaned his forehead against Athos’s. “I love you.” 

“That’s what I was going to say.” 

“Then say it. I want to hear you say it.” 

“I love you,” Athos acceded to Aramis’s command as much in response to his own heart. “And now we are even.” 

“Even?” 

“For seven years, I have been in your debt, wishing I could repay you.” 

Aramis kissed him briefly. “I did not do that with any hope of recompense.” 

“But I wanted to repay you.” Athos brushed his lips against Aramis, their foreheads never losing contact. “And I want to do it again and again.” 

“Then I will be in your debt.” 

“Which means you will never be able to leave.” Athos kissed him more deeply, so forcefully, in fact, that the only point of contact on their faces could be their mouths. And they kissed and kissed, until Aramis pulled Athos onto the bed next to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have more planned for this series, but I need to take a break to do some non-smut writing with my hubby. Hopefully I'll be back at the end of October.


End file.
